“Maggie Rizer is the only woman in the world who can actually wear these capris,” Hope, one of the fashion assistants—weighing a whopping 105 pounds and clocking in at six-one—loudly announced outside our office suite while holding the pants in front of her legs and sighing. “They would make my ass look even more gigantic than it already is.”
“Andrea,” called her friend, a girl I didn’t know very well who worked in accessories, “please tell Hope she’s not fat.”
“You’re not fat,” I said, my mouth on autopilot. It would’ve saved me many, many hours to have a shirt printed up that said as much, or perhaps to just have the phrase tattooed directly on my forehead. I was constantly called on to assure various Runway employees that they weren’t fat.
“Ohmigod, have you seen my gut lately? I’m like the fucking Firestone store, spare tires everywhere. I’m huge!” Fat was on everyone’s minds, if not actually their bodies. Emily swore that her thighs had a “wider circumference than a giant sequoia.” Jessica believed that her “jiggly upper arms” looked like Roseanne Barr’s. Even James complained that his ass had looked so big that morning when he got out of the shower that he’d “contemplated calling in fat to work.”
In the beginning I’d responded to the myriad am-I-fat questions with what I thought to be an exceedingly rational reply. “If you’re fat, Hope, what does that make me? I’m two inches shorter than you and I weigh more.”
“Oh, Andy, be serious. I am fat. You’re thin and gorgeous!”
Naturally I thought she was lying, but I soon came to realize that Hope—along with every other anorexically skinny girl in the office, and most of the guys—was able to accurately evaluate other people’s weight. It was just when it came time to look in the mirror that everyone genuinely saw a wildebeest staring back.
Of course, as much as I tried to keep it at bay, to remind myself over and over that I was normal and they weren’t, the constant fat comments had made an impression. It’d only been four months I’d been working, but my mind was now skewed enough—not to mention paranoid—that I sometimes thought these comments were directed intentionally to me. As in: I, the tall, gorgeous, svelte fashion assistant, am pretending to think I’m fat just so you, the lumpy, stumpy personal assistant will realize that you are indeed the fat one. At five-ten and 115 pounds (the same weight as when my body was racked with parasites), I’d always considered myself on the thinner side of girls my age. I’d also spent my life until then feeling taller than ninety percent of the women I met, and at least half the guys. Not until starting work at this delusional place did I know what it was like to feel short and fat, all day, every day. I was easily the troll of the group, the squattest and the widest, and I wore a size six. And just in case I failed to consider this for a moment, the daily chitchat and gossip could surely remind me.
“Dr. Eisenberg said that the Zone only works if you swear off fruit, too, you know,” Jessica added, joining the conversation by plucking a skirt from the Narcisco Rodriguez rack. Newly engaged to one of the youngest vice presidents at Goldman Sachs, Jessica was feeling the pressures of her upcoming society wedding. “And she’s right. I’ve lost at least another ten pounds since my last fitting.” I forgave her for starving herself when she barely had enough body fat to function normally, but I just couldn’t forgive her for talking about it. I could not, no matter how impressive the doctors’ names were or how many success stories she prattled on about, bring myself to care.
At around one the office really picked up pace, because everyone began getting ready for lunch. Not that there was any eating associated with the lunch hour, but it was the prime time of day for guests. I watched lazily as the usual array of stylists, contributors, freelancers, friends, and lovers stopped by to revel in and generally soak up the glamour that naturally accompanied hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, dozens of gorgeous faces, and what felt like an unlimited amount of really, really, really long legs.
Jeffy made his way over to me as soon as he could confirm that both Miranda and Emily had left for lunch and handed me two enormous shopping bags.
“Here, check this stuff out. This should be a pretty good start.”
I dumped the contents of one bag onto the floor beside my desk and began sorting. There were Joseph pants in camel and charcoal gray, both long and lean and low-waisted, made from an incredibly soft wool. A pair of brown suede Gucci pants looked as though they could turn any schlub into a supermodel, while two pairs of perfectly faded Marc Jacobs jeans looked like they were custom cut for my body. There were eight or nine options for tops, ranging from a skintight ribbed turtleneck sweater by Calvin Klein to a teeny, completely sheer peasant blouse by Donna Karan. A dynamite graphic Diane Von Furstenburg wrap-dress was folded neatly over a navy, velvet Tahari pantsuit. I spotted and immediately fell in love with an all-around pleated Habitual denim skirt that would fall just above my knees and look perfect with the decidedly funky floral-printed Katayone Adelie blazer.
“These clothes . . . this is all for me?” I asked, hoping I sounded excited and not offended.
“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just some things that have been lying around the Closet forever. We might have used some of it in shoots, but none of it ever got returned to the companies. Every few months or so I clean out the Closet and give this stuff away, and I figured you, uh, might be interested. You’re a size six, right?”
I nodded, still dumbfounded.
“Yeah, I could tell. Most everyone else is a two or smaller, so you’re welcome to all of it.”
Ouch. “Great. This is just great. Jeffy, I can’t thank you enough. It’s all amazing!”
“Check out the second bag,” he said, motioning to where it sat on the floor. “You don’t think you can pull off that velvet suit with that shitty messenger bag you’re always dragging around, do you?”
The second, even more bulging bag spilled forth a stunning array of shoes, bags, and a couple of coats. There were two pairs of high-heeled Jimmy Choo boots—one ankle- and one knee-length—two pairs of open-toe Manolo stiletto sandals, a pair of classic black Prada pumps, and one pair of Tod loafers, which Jeffy immediately reminded me to never wear to the office. I slung a slouchy red suede bag over my shoulder and immediately saw the two intersecting “C”s carved in the front, but that wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the deep chocolate leather from the Celine tote that I threw on my other arm. A long military-style trench with the signature oversize Marc Jacobs buttons topped it all off.
“You’re joking,” I said softly, fondling a pair of Dior sunglasses he’d apparently thrown in as an afterthought. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
He looked pleased with my reaction and ducked his head. “Just do me a favor and wear it, OK? And don’t tell anyone that I gave you first pick on all this stuff, because they live for the Closet clean-outs, you hear?” He bolted from the suite when we heard Emily’s voice call out to someone down the hall, and I shoved my new clothes under my desk.
Emily came back from the dining room with her usual lunch: an all-natural fruit smoothie and a small to-go container of iceberg lettuce topped with broccoli and balsamic vinegar. Not vinaigrette. Vinegar. Miranda would be in any minute—Uri had just called to say he was dropping her off—so I didn’t have my usually luxurious seven minutes to beeline to the soup table and gulp it down back at my desk. The minutes ticked by and I was starving, but I just didn’t have the energy to weave through the Clackers and get examined by the cashier and wonder if I was doing permanent damage by swallowing piping hot (and fattening!) soup so fast that I could feel the heat coursing down my esophagus. Not worth it, I thought. Skipping a single meal won’t kill you, I told myself. In fact, according to every single one of your sane and stable coworkers, it’ll just make you stronger. And besides, $2,000 pants don’t look so hot on girls who gorge themselves, I rationalized. I slumped down in my chair and thought of how well I had just represented Runway magazine.
11
The
cell phone shrilled from somewhere deep in my dream, but consciousness took over long enough for me to wonder if it was her. After a stunningly fast orientation process—Where am I? Who is “she”? What day is it?—I realized that having the phone ring at eight on a Saturday morning was not a good omen. None of my friends would be awake for hours, and after years of getting screened out, my parents had grudgingly accepted that their daughter wasn’t answering until noon. In the seven seconds it took to figure all this out, I was also contemplating a reason why I should pick up this phone call. Emily’s reasons from the first day came back to me, though, and so I started my arm in a floor sweep from the comfort of my bed. I managed to click it open just before it stopped ringing.
“Hello?” I was proud that my voice sounded strong and clear, as though I’d spent the past few hours working hard at something respectable rather than passed out in a sleep that was so deep, so intense, it couldn’t possibly have indicated good things about my health.
“Morning, honey! Glad to hear you’re awake. I just wanted to tell you that we’re in the sixties on Third, so I’ll be there in just ten minutes or so, OK?” My mom’s voice came booming over the line. Moving day! It was moving day! I’d forgotten entirely that my parents had agreed to come into the city to help me pack my stuff up and take it to the new apartment Lily and I had rented. We were going to lug the boxes of clothes and CDs and picture albums while the real movers tackled my massive bed frame.
“Oh, hi, Mom,” I mumbled, lapsing back into tired-voice mode. “I thought you were her.”
“Nope, you’ve got yourself a break today. Anyway, where should we park? Is there a garage right around there?”
“Yeah, right under my building, just enter right from Third. Give them my apartment number in the building and you’ll get a discount. I’ve got to get dressed. I’ll see you soon.”
“OK, honey. Hope you’re ready to work today!”
I fell back onto my pillow and considered my options for possibly going back to sleep. They were looking really grim, considering they’d driven all the way in from Connecticut to help me move. Just then, the alarm clock blared its signature static. Ah hah! So I had remembered that today was moving day. The reminder that I wasn’t going completely crazy was a small comfort.
Getting out of bed was, quite possibly, even harder to do than other days even though it was happening a few hours later. My body had been briefly tricked into thinking that it would actually get to catch up, had depended on reducing that infamous “sleep debt” we’d learned about in Psych 101, when I wrenched it from bed. There was a small pile of clothes I’d left folded by the bed, the only things besides my toothbrush that I hadn’t yet packed. I pulled on the blue Adidas windpants, the hooded Brown sweatshirt, and the pair of filthy gray New Balance sneakers that had accompanied me around the world. Not a second after I swooshed the last of my Listerine did the buzzer ring.
“Hi, guys. I’ll buzz you up, just a sec.”
There was a knock on the door two minutes later, and instead of my parents there stood a rumpled-looking Alex. He looked great, as usual. His faded jeans hung low on nonexistent hips, and his long-sleeved navy T-shirt was just the right amount of tight. The tiny wire-rims he wore only when he couldn’t tolerate his contacts were perched in front of very red eyes, and his hair was all over the place. I couldn’t stop myself from hugging him on the spot. I hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before, when we’d met for a quick midafternoon coffee. We’d intended to spend the whole day and night together, but Miranda had needed an emergency babysitter for Cassidy so she could take Caroline to the doctor, and I had been recruited. I’d gotten home too late to spend any real time with him, and he’d recently stopped camping out in my bed just to get a glimpse of me, which I understood. He’d wanted to stay over the night before, but I was still in that stage of parent-pretending: even though all parties involved knew that Alex and I were sleeping together, nothing could be done, said, or implied to actually confirm it. And so I hadn’t wanted him there when my parents arrived.
“Hey, babe. I thought you guys could use some help today.” He held up a Bagelry bag that I knew would contain salt bagels, my favorite, and some large coffees. “Are your parents here yet? I brought them coffees, too.”
“I thought you had to tutor today,” I said just as Shanti emerged from her bedroom wearing a black pantsuit. She hung her head as she walked past us, mumbled something about working all day, and left. We so seldom talked, I wondered if she realized today was my last day in the apartment.
“I did, but I called the two little girls’ parents and both said that tomorrow morning was fine with them, so I’m all yours!”
“Andy! Alex!” My father stood in the doorway behind Alex, beaming as though this were the best morning on earth. My mom looked so awake I wondered if she was on drugs. I did a quick once-over of the situation and figured that they would rightly assume that Alex had just arrived since he was still wearing his shoes and was obviously holding recently purchased food. Besides, the door was still open. Phew.
“Andy said you couldn’t make it today,” my dad said, setting down what looked like a bag of bagels—also salt, no doubt—and coffees on the table in the living room. He deliberately avoided eye contact. “Are you on your way in or out?”
I smiled and looked at Alex, hoping he wasn’t already regretting what he’d gotten himself into so early in the morning.
“Oh, I just got here, Dr. Sachs,” Alex said gamely. “I rearranged my tutoring because I thought you two could use another pair of hands.”
“Great. That’s great—I’m sure it’ll be a big help. Here, help yourself to bagels. Alex, I’m sorry to say that we didn’t get three coffees since we didn’t know you’d be here.” My dad looked genuinely upset, which was touching. I knew he still had trouble with his youngest daughter having a boyfriend, but he did his best not to show it.
“No worries, Dr. S. I brought some stuff, too, so it looks like there’s plenty.” And somehow, my dad and my boyfriend sat down on the futon together—without a trace of awkwardness—and shared an early-morning breakfast.
I sampled salt bagels from each of their bags and thought about how much fun it would be to live with Lily again. We’d been out of college for nearly a year now. We’d tried to talk at least once a day, but it still felt like we hardly ever saw each other. Now, we would come home to each other and bitch about our respective hellish days—just like old times. Alex and my dad prattled on about sports (basketball, I think) while my mom and I labeled the boxes in my room. Sadly, there wasn’t much: just a few boxes of bed linens and pillows, another of photo albums and assorted desk supplies (even though I lacked a desk), some makeup and toiletries, and a whole bunch of garment bags filled with un-Runway-esque clothes. Hardly enough to warrant labels; I guess it was the assistant in me kicking in.
“Let’s get moving,” my dad called from the living room.
“Shhh! You’ll wake Kendra,” I loudly whispered back. “It is only nine in the morning on a Saturday, you know.”
Alex was shaking his head. “Didn’t you see her leave with Shanti before? At least, I think that was her. There were definitely two of them, and they were both wearing suits and looking unhappy. Check their bedroom.”
The door to the room they managed to share by bunking their beds was ajar, and I pushed it open slightly. Both beds were made meticulously, pillows fluffed and matching stuffed Gund dogs propped up on each. I didn’t realize until then that I’d never so much as stepped foot in their room—in the few months I’d lived with these girls, we hadn’t had a conversation of longer than thirty seconds—I didn’t know exactly what they did, where they went, or if they had any friends besides each other. I was glad to be leaving.
Alex and my dad had cleaned up the leftover food and were trying to map out a game plan. “You’re right, they’re both gone. I don’t even think they know I’m leaving today.”
“Maybe leave them a note?” my mom sugg
ested. “Maybe on your Scrabble board.” I’d inherited my father’s addiction to Scrabble, and he had a theory that each new home required a new board so I was leaving the old one behind.
I took the last five minutes in the apartment to make the tiles read, “Thanks for everything and good luck XO Andy.” Fifty-nine points. Not bad.
It took an hour to pack both of the cars up, with me not doing much more than propping open the door to the street and guarding the vehicles while they went back upstairs. The bed movers—who were charging more than the actual cost of the damn thing—were running late, so my dad and Alex each started downtown. Lily had found our new apartment through an ad in the Village Voice, and I hadn’t even seen it yet. She’d called me at work from her cell phone in the middle of the day, screaming, “I found it! I found it! It’s perfect! There’s a bathroom with running water, a wooden floor that only has minimal warping, and I’ve been here four full minutes and haven’t seen a single mouse or even a roach. Can you come see it immediately?”
“Are you high right now?” I whispered. “She’s here, which means I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to come now. You know what it’s like. I have my folder and everything.”
“Lily, be reasonable. I couldn’t leave the office right now for an emergency heart transplant if I needed one, without getting fired. How can I come look at an apartment?”
“Well, it’s not going to be here in thirty more seconds. There are at least twenty-five other people at this open house, and they’re all filling out applications. I need to do this now.”
The Devil Wears Prada Page 21